Pathological by Sarah Fay

Author:Sarah Fay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-01-27T00:00:00+00:00

11

On Suicidal Ideation

At our next appointment, Dr. M cocked his head to the side and looked at me. On his desk behind him was his usual can of LaCroix Naturally Essenced Sparkling Water. He asked how I was doing.

His voice sounded far away. It felt as if the big gray couch was starting to swallow me. “I can’t take it.”

He turned to the LaCroix can and edged his finger under the tab.

I begged him to let me go back on the SSRI.

He reminded me of the damage it would do long-term to stay on it: a possible manic episode, rapid cycling.

Something seemed wrong, not about what he was saying but with the black file cabinet in the corner. Both drawers were open halfway. Papers stuck out of the file folders as if trying to escape. “The shudders and shivers. My thoughts. The nightmares—they’re too much.”

“Your body and mind are reacting, not being damaged,” he said.

I thought again of the morning I first took the SSRI, standing at the kitchen counter, the pill bottle open in front of me. How a shaft of sunlight came through the window. How much I believed the SSRI would make me better. Now, better was no longer in the equation; I needed the SSRI. “Please, let me go back on it.”

He lifted the tab of the LaCroix can. The carbonation released with a hiss. “Give it time.”

The “essence” of grapefruit reached me—strong and acidic.

* * *

Someone once told me that hope is deadly. It’s expectation (the certainty that something will happen) mixed with desire (want). But nothing in life is certain and our expectations are so rarely met, which means that hope is actually a kind of tormenting want, something akin to what the Greek mythological figure Tantalus experienced when he was condemned to be forever thirsty and hungry in Hades, the fruit on the branches of a nearby tree always out of reach.

Still, we equate hope with strength. Its symbol is an anchor. Sometimes, it’s a butterfly. Occasionally, a dove.

In positive psychology circles, hope exists on a spectrum. Real hope blends optimism into reality. False hope is the deluded belief in the impossible.

I had hope. Not firm-anchored hope. Not flitting-butterfly hope. Not free-as-a-dove hope. False hope that one medication or treatment for my bipolar would be the answer.

* * *

A month later, I sat on the swallowing gray couch in Dr. M’s office. He clapped his hands almost enthusiastically. We were nearing the end of the SSRI titration. Soon, I’d be off it.

The withdrawal symptoms had seemed to build, climax, and now scraped along. Gone were the hallucinations, paranoia, sweating, agitation, nightmares, the brain shivers and shudders and zaps, but not the anxiety, confusion, irritability, insomnia, or crying spells, which seemed minor in comparison.

He strongly recommended I start on lithium. “The gold standard for bipolar.”

I knew little about it aside from the Nirvana song of the same name (though Kurt Cobain said the song was about the power of religion, not the drug, to

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